The regimented years mark their pace in our artificial artifacts of time and we are left to live them. The sun that rose this morning marches its westward course this evening with no knowledge of our lives’ events, yet it marks their passing in our memory. We loose the bonds of orbits and time flows its course in our minds, unfettered, and I can remember the gentle touch of my mother’s hand, the loving tones of my grandmother’s voice can echo without hindrance in my mind. The arrow shot cannot turn and leaves only memory in its passing.
Five years in the Maying moon. Thus have I lived with only my mother’s memory for comfort in the world. No matter how old the child, the nurturing touch of the Mother is essential and I am grateful I have memory of what time has stolen. While I have suffered the loss, I feel there is a certain blind grace in her passing: she did not have to suffer the loss of her grandsons. Yet their mother did.
One year in the Maying moon. My sister has lived with the fresh grief of loss. To lose a child is unthinkable. To lose both children is unfathomable. Where is there comfort for such loss as occurs only in famine and war? There simply is no scaffolding, spiritual, religious or philosophical, that can offer comfort here. There is only the indomitable will to rise each morning and do one’s best then rest each evening.
Blessèd are the mothers of the world. Blessèd in their joy, blessèd in their grief. Blessèd in the birthing, the rearing and the releasing of their children. No one confers this blessing, it is immanent within their being, it is emergent from whom they are. Honor and celebrate them. And may there be some grace, some solace for those mothers from whom all has been taken.
At the intersection of time and memory, there is no why. There needs be no why. It is not why the events of the world occur that is important, but how we respond with our humanity in the moment. It is our will to nurture given us by our mothers that makes of us better persons who can understand, not why, but what needs to be done. This generous gift of empathy, should we choose to listen, may be our only hope of surviving time and memory.